It's slippery like the frozen pond under my feet. It burns like the ice shards on my tongue. It's a hot cup of tea on a wintery night, the frozen popsicles you ate when you were five in the summer. It's the golden leaves falling in autumn, and the budding roses in Spring. It's the reason you set your alarm clock for six in the morning and why you continue to wake up. It's the reason your dreams come alive, and your imagination still lives. It's the criss-crossed lines in a spider web, and the droplets of rain that cling to it. It's the morning dew under your feet, and the braided crowns of grass when you were seven. The swing of your legs as you swung higher and higher, the sky your goal. The smiles and toothy grins. The reason you wipe away your tears at night, and the reason your pillow dries by morning.
Those that have nothing are something because of it, and those that have something, are nothing without it.
It's the reason your eyes look up every time there's a silence in the air, and the reason you look to the sky for dreams.
HOPE.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHireath: (n) A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was. For the home I haven't yet returned to. ***************************** A book of poems and the occasional response to writing prompts. Or both. My es...
